


filling the space between one breath and the next

by sceptick



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: BDSM, Breathplay, M/M, Painplay, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 09:45:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sceptick/pseuds/sceptick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick leans in, presses his lips to Pete’s neck just above his fingers. “Breathe in,” he whispers, and Pete does, one long inhale that drags along the dryness in his throat the whole way down.</p><p>“And hold it,” Patrick says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	filling the space between one breath and the next

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to thickney for being such a wonderful beta <333 This work is based off of [this performance](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7pStx9-53rc), where in short succession Pete a) gets up on a riser behind Patrick, grabs him by the back of his shirt and pulls him back into him, and b) goes into the crowd and has his shirt torn entirely off of him save for the collar. It's an, uh, _inspiring_ video, let's say.

The minute he’s off-stage, Pete’s chugging down a whole bottle of orange Gatorade. There’s a buzzing under his skin, high-frequency tremors running the length of his muscles to the drumbeat of their last song. The sudden blast of sugar just heightens the sensation until he’s practically vibrating, running high off the show and the tour and the cheers of the crowd still ringing in his ears.

He still can’t believe this is his life sometimes. It’s too fucking good to be real.

It’s dim backstage, but not quiet. Pete’s tucked away in the left wing, and the stage crew shuffle around nearby, shutting down and putting away equipment. It makes a fair amount of noise, and beyond that Pete’s also wrapped up in the post-show static in his brain. It’s no wonder he doesn’t hear Patrick coming up behind him, doesn’t notice him at all until Patrick tugs lightly at the tiny scrap of fabric around Pete’s neck -- all that’s left of his tank top after he went into the crowd -- making it press lightly against Pete’s Adam’s apple. The move echoes back to the one Pete pulled on stage, when he reeled Patrick back into his body, warm heat and familiar solidity.

“Sweet show, man,” Patrick says, his voice nothing more than a quiet rasp in Pete’s ear. He lets go of Pete’s ruined shirt and retreats, his knuckles barely brushing against Pete’s back as his hand falls back to his side. Lighter than a kiss.

Pete turns around but Patrick’s already walking away, heading further into the backstage gloom, away from the techies and the few sources of light – away from _witnesses_ , the look he shoots back at Pete over his shoulder says, dark and hot and filthy. Pete licks his lips. His throat and mouth feel suddenly even drier than before, but he tosses the rest of his Gatorade into a nearby garbage bin and follows Patrick away.

They don’t go far. They learned their lesson on that front a long time ago, when Marcus wound up organizing a damn search party because he couldn’t find them and some poor sound tech nearly walked in on them in a tiny storage room deep within the bowels of the venue. Instead, Patrick leads Pete just far enough out of the way that no one will stumble across them, but not so far that they won’t hear voices calling their names. It’s a little room off the main hall with no functioning lights and no obvious purpose, completely bare besides what looks like a broken La-Z-Boy recliner. Pete turns to close the door most of the way shut behind them, and when he turns back around, Patrick is up in his space, guiding Pete’s lips to his with a sure hand on the back of his neck.

When Patrick pulls away a moment later, Pete is already breathless. The shivering sensation under his skin hasn’t left, and the way Patrick grins at him, like he wants to eat Pete alive, just makes the hot, coiled feeling in his gut pull tighter. Patrick’s skin is shiny with sweat. A sliver of light leaks in through the doorway; it draws the eye down the line of his neck to the shadowy dip between his collarbones, just barely visible above the drooping collar of his t-shirt, where the sweat has gathered in visible droplets that catch the light. Pete licks his lips, his eyes flicking up to Patrick’s face and then back down to his throat. Patrick swallows, his throat working visibly, and it’s too much to resist – Pete’s hands go to Patrick’s waist and he pulls him in, ducking his head so that he can lick at that spot, taste the sweat and the skin underneath.

Patrick’s breath shudders out of him; Pete can feel it where his hands rest just under Patrick’s rib bones, and all along where their bodies are pressed together. But when Patrick speaks, his voice is remarkably steady. “Here I was, thinking you outgrew climbing all over me on stage. Guess not, huh?”

Every word thrums against Pete’s lips and tongue and teeth. He grins, nips at the spot where Patrick’s neck meets the curve of his jaw. “Nope,” he says. “I’ve moved on from the eyeliner and the emo bangs, but there’s no moving on from you, Patrick Stump.”

Patrick laughs; it ends in a tight gasp when Pete sucks at the spot he just bit. Patrick’s neck is deliciously sensitive. “You –“ Patrick starts, then pauses to tilt his head, giving Pete better access. One of his hands comes up to wind in the hair at the back of Pete’s neck, which has begun to curl again with all the sweat. “You’re lucky I didn’t fall off the riser, asshole.”

Pete’s next nip is maybe a little harder than is nice, and Patrick shivers under his hands. “Like I’d _let_ you, asshole.”

“Not even if you thought it would be funny?” Patrick asks, a smile in his voice. His free hand, the one not tangled in Pete’s hair, presses against Pete’s chest, skin-to-sweaty-skin.

Pete makes a considering noise, and Patrick laughs, his throat vibrating against Pete’s lips, but they both know Pete doesn’t mean it. There’s nothing funny to Pete about the idea of Patrick _actually_ getting hurt, and those risers are pretty high for little guys like them.

He would make a crack about them not being able to do this if Patrick were laid out in traction, but then Patrick’s hand traces down his stomach, smoothing over hot skin and coming to rest at the waistband of his pants, his thumb playing idly with the button. The hand in Pete’s hair relinquishes its hold in favor of gripping the collar of his decimated shirt from the back, tugging gently so the rough cotton cuts in against Pete’s windpipe. It’s not restrictive at all, but that skin-too-tight feeling that’s been sinking into Pete’s muscles all the way down to his bones since the show ended intensifies in a hot rush, leaving him gasping helplessly against Patrick’s neck.

“Jesus, Pete,” Patrick says, his voice a hoarse murmur, and he releases Pete’s collar to cup his jaw, pull him up into a kiss. It’s slow, and controlled, Patrick’s thumb under his jaw dictating the angle and the sure press of his lips leading Pete’s response, but it’s all the dirtier for it and Pete’s so fucking turned on it’s all he can do to stay upright, not slide to his knees and blow Patrick then and there.

“How much time do we have?” he asks instead, pressing his forehead to Patrick’s and trying to get control of his breathing.

“Not more than fifteen minutes, for sure,” Patrick says. He bites at Pete’s lower lip. “I wasn’t exactly planning anything drawn-out, though.”

“Man with a plan – I like it,” Pete says, tightening his fingers on Patrick’s sides, letting his nails dig in just the tiniest bit. Patrick hums into Pete’s mouth, a low, pleased sound, and presses their hips together in a slow grind.

The hand on Pete’s stomach is tracing aimless patterns, guitar calluses scratching just this side of too light, a friction that does nothing for him but can’t be ignored, either. Pete loves to be touched, loves to be grabbed – this isn’t that. This is just plain teasing, and when he huffs in irritation Patrick smiles against his mouth.

“I thought you said we didn’t have much time,” Pete grumbles, and Patrick pinches his hip, lightly, then harder.

“Oh, getting groped by a hundred fans is more than enough foreplay, huh,” Patrick says. He pulls back to flash Pete a teasing grin and pinches him again, digging his nails in just a little this time; the immediate pain fades into a low, throbbing ache, and Pete grins back, relishing it. Patrick’s not wrong – nothing gives Pete a rush like reaching out into a crowd and feeling a hundred people reach back for him – but he’s also not fooling anyone. He gets off on it too.

Patrick hooks two fingers into the waist of Pete’s pants and tugs. “Come on, then,” he says, and he turns them around and shoves Pete towards the recliner, which is stuck in a half-lowered position.

Pete levels a mock-sad look at Patrick. “For a second I thought you were going to fuck me up against the wall. You going boring on me, Stump?”

Patrick shoves him again until he falls back into the recliner, laughing. “Shut up,” Patrick says, but he’s snickering too. “As if, fucker.”

“Yeah?” Pete sprawls back, letting his legs fall wide and dropping a hand to undo the button on his pants, tug the zipper down and open. It’s too dark in the room to see much, but he can make out the rapid rise-and-fall of Patrick’s chest, can _feel_ the heavy gaze that rests on him. It’s too much, and he presses the heel of his palm down against his erection through his briefs, because ‘too much’ has never really been enough for him.

Patrick exhales slowly. “Jesus _Christ_ , Pete,” he says. He reaches out and knocks Pete’s knees together with a light smack to Pete’s thigh, climbs up into his lap. It can’t be comfortable, with his knees pressing tightly into the arms of the recliner, but god _damn_ does he look good, feel good, his weight resting warm and familiar against Pete’s thighs, one hand braced beside Pete’s head for balance as he leans in as if to kiss him. At the last second, he shifts sideways so his mouth is by Pete’s ear instead. His eyelashes brush against Pete’s temple as he blinks. He says, “You’re going to need to be sitting down, because I don’t feel like throwing out my back trying to keep you upright when your legs start giving out. We don’t all spend all our free time at the gym, you know.”

Pete laughs, but it’s rough, catching in his throat. “Weakling,” he says.

Patrick digs his knee into the thick muscle of Pete’s thigh until Pete hisses. “Don’t have to be strong to do this,” he says, and Pete can hear the smile in his voice. Then Patrick’s grabbing Pete’s hand, settling it on his waist, giving it a brief squeeze. It’s a familiar move, and Pete’s breath catches with anticipation. He’d suspected they were building towards this – it’s not like Patrick was being subtle – but they’ve also never done it like this before. Not with so little time, not in such a precariously semi-public place, and not right after a show, with the buzz of the crowd and the lights and the music still sparking along Pete’s nerves.

Patrick draws back and catches Pete’s eye. “Okay?” he says.

Pete grins, squeezing lightly at Patrick’s waist. “Hell yeah.”

Patrick leans down and kisses him, twice, softly, and then again, harder. With one hand he works Pete’s pants and underwear down as he nips at Pete’s lips. His fingers brush for a breath of a second against Pete’s cock on the way, and Pete shudders, winding his free hand around Patrick’s neck to pull him closer, turning the kiss into a hungry, desperate thing.

“Pete, Pete,” Patrick whispers against his lips. His fingers curl into the top of Pete’s thigh where it’s bare, his grip warm and strong, and _God_ does Pete loves him.

Still – “Time’s a-wasting, Stump,” he says, poking Patrick in the waist. “We gonna do this or what?”

Patrick chuckles. “Sorry. You’re kind of distracting.”

“ _Yeah_ I am –“ and then he falls silent as Patrick settles a warm palm on his neck heavily, deliberately. His fingers curl with the curve of Pete’s throat, so his thumb rests over Pete’s pulse. The anticipation presses in on Pete like a physical thing, and he draws in breath after breath, quicker than before, frantic in the knowledge that it’s a freedom he’ll be kissing goodbye in just a second. He can hear his heartbeat echoing through his skull. The thought of Patrick feeling that, feeling the quick fluttering of Pete’s pulse through the tips of his fingers, makes Pete shudder, makes him drop his head back, baring his throat.

Patrick leans in, presses his lips to Pete’s neck just above his fingers. “Breathe in,” he whispers, and Pete does, one long inhale that drags along the dryness in his throat the whole way down.

“And hold it,” Patrick says. Pete nods, and then Patrick’s leaning back, curling a fist around Pete’s cock, stroking lazily. It’s slow, devastatingly slow, so that the edge of every callus catches and clings to Pete’s skin. Patrick’s working with his left hand, but he’s got that damn drummer’s ambidexterity, so although it’s slow, it’s consistent, each stroke deliberate, like putting a song together, building it up track by track, drums then bass then guitars then –

“Stop thinking,” Patrick says, and Pete can hear the smile in it. He can’t, though, he can’t, he’s wired and buzzing like the stage lights are still on him, like the screams of the crowd are still ringing in his ears, setting a fire into his heart that rages through veins full of gasoline. There’s a heavy, concave feeling in his chest and lungs and he realizes he’s used up most of his air, just like that, with the adrenaline racing through him and burning it up.

Patrick’s grip on his throat tightens, ever so slightly, and he digs his thumbnail into the muscle at the side of Pete’s neck, a sharp flash of pain. “I said, _stop thinking_.”

Pete closes his eyes and obeys. He stops trying to catalogue every moment and lets it all wash over him instead, Patrick’s palm sweat-damp and hot around his cock, Patrick’s weight heavy in his lap, Patrick’s fingers biting into his neck. Distantly, Pete registers Patrick humming his approval. The brief moment of panic has passed and he sinks into the empty feeling in his lungs, the dryness on his tongue and his lips, the heat burning his muscles from the inside as they beg for oxygen.

He could inhale. Patrick’s hand on his throat is only a reminder of who’s in charge – it’s not actually restricting his airway. He could inhale any time, release the tension wrapping around his ribcage and crawling into his bones, but he _chooses_ not to, because Patrick told him to hold it in, and because Pete’s never met a limit he didn’t want to test. And, of course, because it feels so fucking good – the deadly numbness battling it out with his desperate arousal to see which will drown him first. Patrick’s thumb circles the head of his cock, and Pete jerks feebly under him, trying to buck up into Patrick’s grip but lacking the energy to do so. He _is_ drowning, but it’s the sweetest kind he’s ever tried.

Patrick’s weight shifts, and then his lips press to Pete’s cheek, his brow, his forehead. When Patrick leans back away, Pete struggles to drag his eyes open. Even just that is a battle now; it feels like he’s fighting for every millimeter. His lungs are screaming, his stomach tied up in knots and everything, _everything_ feels like it’s pressing into his ribcage, trying to force it open, trying to break him apart to drink in new air in the fastest, most direct way possible. And Patrick’s speeding up now, jerking Pete off with no finesse, and that’s breaking him apart too. But Pete manages despite all this, somehow – he drags his eyes open, and Patrick’s grinning down at him. The thin stream of light from the door is just enough to illuminate the flush riding high in Patrick’s cheeks and the look in his eyes, hungry and intense but still so damn _fond_. Patrick leans in and kisses Pete again, on the lips, close-mouthed and chaste. Pete’s energy fails him then; his eyes fall shut of their own accord as he walks the line between conscious and not, clinging on by just his fingernails and the insistent pleasure building in the base of his spine.

“Come on, come on,” Patrick whispers, just next to Pete’s ear. His voice is little more than a dry rasp, and Pete feels it rumble all the way through him. Patrick’s fingers squeeze around Pete’s neck, slipping slightly in a thin sheen of sweat that must be coating him entirely, because it feels like he’s burning up from the inside, about to melt right away. He’s a second away from coming or dying, and it feels like he’s falling towards the latter – God, he needs to breathe, craves it, and every last bit of his strength is going into fighting that urge, pressing his lips together and biting the inside of his cheek as the rest of him lies boneless under Patrick’s weight.

“Come on, Pete,” Patrick says again, and he lets go of Pete’s throat to run his thumb in a firm line down Pete’s windpipe into the hollow between his collarbones even as he does something insane with his wrist as he works on Pete’s cock. And that’s it, that’s all Pete can take – he curls in on himself, presses his forehead into Patrick’s chest and comes, digging his teeth into his lower lip in a last-ditch attempt to keep himself from breathing. He trembles as his hips press up into Patrick’s hand, his abs screaming viciously at him and his lungs aching like they’re being torn to pieces. Patrick soothes a hand down Pete’s spine, dropping kisses to the crown of his head. “So good, so good,” he murmurs, and Pete shudders, electricity tingling painful-good through his muscles and down his bones. “Come on, Pete, breathe in, you did good,” Patrick says. Pete inhales at last, and that, that’s as good as coming. He moans helplessly into Patrick’s shoulder on the exhale.

Patrick tugs at the hair at the base of Pete’s skull until Pete lifts his head. He’s panting helplessly, every breath hitting him like a shot of adrenaline. Patrick leans down and kisses him, stealing that breath right away. It’s sloppy and so, so fucking hot, as Pete gasps for air between kisses and Patrick fights him for it, nipping at Pete’s lips and licking his way in. Pete’s still boneless, but he drags his hand away from Patrick’s waist – and, _Jesus_ , the joints in his knuckles ache from digging his fingers in too hard – to rub his palm into Patrick’s cock through his jeans. Then Patrick’s the one who’s gasping for breath, and Pete grins smugly up at him.

“Fucker,” Patrick says, and with a groan he drags himself away, scooting back on Pete’s legs to get some space between them.

“Spoilsport,” Pete says. He’s still grinning, though, slouching back into the chair as his breathing begins to slow.

“I don’t think you can call me a spoilsport after I get you off. I’m pretty sure that doesn’t make sense.”

For lack of a better response, Pete reaches out and pinches Patrick in the side, right where his hand had been. Sure enough, Patrick flinches slightly – he bruises so damn easily. But he doesn’t move away, and although he moved mostly out of the light when he backed away, Pete still catches the way his eyes glint and his grin sharpens.

Patrick reaches forward and hooks a finger in the shredded collar of Pete’s shirt to pull him forward. Pete follows, his muscles protesting the move – he’s going to be stiff as all hell tomorrow, after the show and then this. Patrick smiles and kisses him; Pete feels the ridges of his knuckles press into his Adam’s apple, and it’s not arousing, not now when the skin-too-tight feeling from before has faded and he’s floating in a post-sex daze – it’s something else altogether, familiar and intimate and wonderful.

Then, from somewhere far off: “Pete, you didn’t put your bass away and Diaz is threatening to quit if you make him do it for you again. Pete?”

Patrick huffs a quiet laugh, his breath warm against Pete’s lips. “Joe. And _that_ ’s why I’m being a spoilsport.”

“You’re both spoilsports, then.” Pete nuzzles his nose along Patrick’s cheekbone. “What’s the point of having a guitar tech if he won’t put away my shit for me?”

“Asshole,” Patrick says, and kisses Pete again. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“Because I’m gonna blow you when we get back to the bus?” Pete waggles his eyebrows, and Patrick must see despite the dark because he laughs, throwing his head back.

“Yeah, that’s gotta be it,” he says.

“I’ve got your number, Trick,” Pete says. He smacks Patrick’s thigh, smirking, and Patrick climbs off with a snort. Pete swings his legs to the ground and tries to stand, but they’re unsteady beneath him and he tips sideways into Patrick, who snorts again. Pete should really tell him that’s an unattractive habit, except that when Patrick does it, it kind of isn’t.

“Who were you calling a weakling earlier?” Patrick says, poking Pete in the side.

Pete smacks a loud kiss to Patrick’s cheek, and says, “Guess I was wrong.” He steps away carefully, and when his knees hold, he grins triumphantly back at Patrick, tugging his pants up his hips with one hand.  “Come on, dude. Let’s go see a man about a bass.”

He’s already out the door and halfway down the hall when he hears Patrick following, laughing and calling, “Do up your damn pants, Pete.”

“Why don’t you _make_ me, Patrick Stump,” Pete says, obnoxiously popping the final ‘P’. Before Patrick can reply, Pete reaches the end of the hallway and steps back into the post-show chaos. Diaz is there immediately, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him away towards the guitar rack, ranting about responsibility and not being paid enough for this shit -- but Pete twists even as he follows, craning his neck back the way he came.

“Are you listening to me, Wentz?” Diaz says, but Pete just shrugs apologetically and stays twisted, waiting for Patrick to appear out of the hallway. If there's one thing that'll always be true, it's that the effect he can have on Patrick is more important than pretty much anything. Not even the threat of losing his guitar tech is going to stop him from seeing that familiar mixture of affection, irritation, and arousal when Patrick steps back into the light.

 

 


End file.
